


The End

by rhymeswithmonth



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Ensemble Cast, Many more - Freeform, Multi, Zombie AU, Zombie Apocalypse, for the respective fandoms not already set in modern day, i'm not going to tag absolutely everyone who appears, more to come - Freeform, unless they have a speaking part
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 16:18:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13617033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithmonth/pseuds/rhymeswithmonth
Summary: The dead rise ten months after Bucky is killed.“The apocalypse part remains to be seen but yeah pal, it looks like it's zombies.”





	The End

** 12/31/2011 23:58 Camp Phoenix, Kabul, Afghanistan  **

 

"And once more charge and three two one-" "Clear!"

  
  
"Vitals remain unresponsive, sir-"

 

"Charge it again."

 

"Sir he's gone-"

 

"Do you know how much this man has done for this army? For our country? Charge it again!"

 

"Sir."

 

"Three two one-" "clear!"

 

"...Nothing sir."

 

"God fucking damnit! Again!"

 

"Three two one" "clear!"

 

"No response."

 

"Sir I'm sorry he's gone we have to call it-"

 

"...Fucking call it then lieutenant."

 

"Note Lieutenant Colonel Nicolas Joseph Fury time of death twelve o'clock a.m. first of January, of the year two thousand twelve."

 

"Noted. Cause of death as trauma sustained in combat; listed fatal trauma to the head, non-fatal injuries lacerations to the face and body, trauma to the torso from attempts to revive patient-"

 

"Oh my god!"

 

"Private?"

 

"H-he just moved! I saw his arm-"

 

"Hold it together son, some muscular spasms are normal post-mortum."

 

"No it was more than that I swear to god, look! His eyes!"

 

"Shit he's right he- holy hell what are his vitals?"

 

"Still reading no heartbeat, no breathing."

 

"Well give me the paddles! Charge, quickly!"

 

"Three two one!" "Clear!"

 

"Hold him down-!"

 

"And three two one" "Clear!" 

 

"We've got a reading! Heartbeat is back and climbing... climbing...extremely elevated. We've got eye movement and breathing! It's a miracle! He's alive!"

 

 

 

** 01/01/2012 00:01, Fort Hamilton, New York, USA. **

 

A noise wakes Steve. He blinks into the darkness of the night, disoriented and slow to adjust. It's absolutely freezing cold, his nostrils burning with every breath, eyelashes clumped together with tiny crystals of ice. The sky is cloudless, offering a perfect view of the fireworks shooting up over the city, exploding overhead to cheers anddistant music.

 

Shuddering, he forces his body up from where he'd slumped sideways. By some miracle there isn't any snow on the ground, but he's left an imprint in the frosty grass. He pulls the sleeping bag higher around his shoulders and reaches to brush the ice off the headstone. He smooths over the familiar design of two crossed swords, one with a broken blade for life taken too soon.

 

"Happy New Year Buck," He murmurs, withdrawing a silver flask from his jacket and taking a healthy swig before dumping the rest out onto the ground. "Woulda brought you flowers but I figured you'd appreciate the whiskey more. S' the bottle I was saving for when you came home, you know. Forgot about it until the other day and then figured nows as good a time as any. Shit. So fuckin' weird, it's two-thousand-twelve and it's the first year I'm ringing in without you. Even last year you called remember? First at midnight Turkey time and I had to abandon the girls in the middle of rush to answer. And then midnight here, and you got in so much shit for breaking phone privileges you crazy bastard." He chokes on a sob. "Goddamnit, sorry Buck I know you hate it when I get weepy. Told myself I was going to hold it together but you know how I am when I drink. Goddamn lightweight as you'd say, disgrace to my Irish blood."

 

Shifting a bit so that his back is to the stone, he tilts his head and watches the fireworks. "I wish you were here. I mean obviously I wish you were here, sitting beside me and telling me what a sap I am. But I also just wish you were _here_ ," he pats the hard ground beside him, "I hate that you're out there somewhere, I try not to think about it but it fucks with my head. They - they found those pieces, but it was all so messed up from the explosion that they couldn't separate you from the other bodies and-" he cuts himself off, "I know I know what you'd say. A body is just a body. I know that what I miss _you_ and that you'd be equally as gone if you were buried here as you are now, but I can't help it but wish they coulda brought you home. I think if it were me you'd've felt the same way."

 

There's a pause in the pyrotechnics, and the cemetery falls into brief silence and it's then that he hears the scraping. He sits up and squints into the darkness. He can't see much more than shadowy outlines of headstones against the darkness of the woods beyond, but there's the unmistakable sound of something moving close by. 

 

"Hello?" He calls tightly, unsettled. The fireworks resume, cracking and popping making it difficult to orient where it's coming from; it kind of sounds like more than one direction. And then a low moan, something between human and animal. Steve jumps to his feet, legs tangling in the sleeping bag for a heart-stopping moment. 

 

"Who's there?" He shouts, scrambling to get his phone from his pocket, hurrying to open the flashlight app. At first all there is are frost encrusted graves, the gently sloping hill of the yard, and the pale stone of the chapel rising above. But then, movement. "What the hell?" He breathes, rubbing his eyes, hoping it's a hallucination born of exhausted drink and grief. But then he spots another flicker, and that scratching noise-

 

A figure stands, closer than he'd expected, and Steve screams. It's a man, or close to it, in navy whites stained almost beyond recognition with dirt. His eyes - set into sunken cheeks - are milky white with no pupils. The figure lurches to face Steve, jaw unhinged to let out a garbled whine. Steve spins away and starts to run, nearly falling over Bucky's grave in his haste. Now he can see more of them, people-shaped _things_ rising out of the ground. "No no no," he gasps, unwilling to believe what he's seeing. The things are in various states of mildly decomposed, a lot of them are like the first, in military dress. A lot with medals gleaming in the light of his phone. He recognizes a few of them, faces from the community, neighbours he never expected to see again. He's attended most of their funerals. 

 

He makes it to the fence and vaults over it. There's a second where he thinks he's safe, that the gate will keep whatever's happening in the yard. But the fence is purely ornamental, and doesn't wrap around the side bordering the forest. Steve takes one more disbelieving look - God there are dozens of them now - before sprinting as fast as he can down the street. 

 

 

 

** 01/01/2012, 05:22, Los Vegas, USA.  **

 

 

 

He doesn't know where he is and there are strange hands grabbing him and manhandling him across a tiled floor, his head is pure agony and then there's a torrent of cold water crashing around him. 

 

A pretty typical morning then. 

 

"Mr Stark! Mr Stark can you hear me?"

 

He struggles feebly to push the hands away. They never leave him alone, never let him sleep. One glimpse from beneath an eyelid tells him that it's far too bright to be conscious. "Leave me alone please," He tries to request politely, but what comes out of his mouth instead is, "noo f'ckoffff!" 

 

"Jesus we don't have time for this!" The stinging impact of a firm slap to his cheek forces him to open both eyes fully. An angel is looming over him, disheveled golden hair haloed by the light emanating from behind her. Tony gapes, struck in speechless awe before his vision focuses and he recognizes her as the new personal assistant, and the heavenly beams of light are actually the pot-light in the walk-in shower of his hotel room.

 

"I'm awake I'm awake." He grunts, batting her away. Which turns out to be a mistake as his body isn't quite ready to support its own weight. His elbow cracks painfully against the granite bench behind him. "Why am I awake? What time'sit? Thought I had the whole day clear?"

 

"I'm afraid this is an emergency." The PA says tightly. What was her name again? Something cutesy-Americana. He takes a better look at her face and immediately feels even more nauseous; she's pale and wide-eyed in a way that actually makes his heart seize. 

 

"What happened?" He demands, beating back the urge to vomit. He wipes the sopping wet hair off his forehead and staggers to his feet. The PA - Miss Virginia Potts is her name, he recalls - grabs his arm to help him out of the shower. He's getting her blouse wet but she doesn't seem to care. "Did I do something worse than usual? Is somebody hurt?"

 

He doesn't remember much of the night before, or the day before in fact. He'd done his first tequila shot during brunch at the poolside bar, and everything after that is the usual blurry montage of booze and drugs, throbbing music, and female flesh. Miss Potts guides him through to the bedroom and allows him to collapse onto the mattress. "It's not like that... I'm not quite sure how to even say it." She picks up the remote for the massive flatscreen TV and flicks it on. It immediately lands on a breaking news bulletin, a haggard looking reporter is speaking rapidly, the small frame in the corner of the screen showing shaky, insane footage. Tony's hand drifts to cover his mouth, "I'm think... I'm going to..."

 

Miss Potts is quick enough to hand him the ice bucket to vomit into. She's good, he thinks dazedly, she can stay. "I need my phone." He rasps when his stomach has stopped preforming acrobatics, "Where'd I leave it?"

 

"Here." She produces his cell phone seemingly out of nowhere. "It's been going off all morning, your voicemail is full."

 

That's impressive. His voicemail, like everything about the device, has been highly upgraded and has ten times the storage of any phones on the market. Although he supposes it's understandable given the circumstances. He thumbs through the most recent calls, hitting Rhodey's straight away and exhaling in relief when it's picked up immediately. 

 

_ "For chrissakes Tony I've been trying to get ahold of you for hours! Where are you?" _

 

"I'm in Vegas." Tony exclaims, "You knew that, at the Mercedes bash. Rhodey what the hells going on? They're saying crazy shit on NBC"

 

_ "You need to get somewhere secure Tony. Try to get to the chopper but be careful. It's real man, it's hard to believe but it's happening and everything's gone to pieces." _

 

Tony sags into the pillows. "It's really...it's the zombie apocalypse for real?"

 

_ "Well the apocalypse part remains to be seen but yeah pal, it looks like it's zombies. I'm on my way to DC right now they're calling an emergency summit. Tony I don't know how long infrastructure will hold, a lot of hospitals have gone down, most major cities are in chaos. Roads are jammed, emergency responses are completely overwhelmed. And not just in the US. This is international." _

 

"Holy shit."

 

_ "As far as we can tell something happened at midnight around the globe. Time-zone by time-zone as soon as the clock hit zero. But nobody caught on to what was happening until far too late. There's no protocol for this. Just get your people and get somewhere well-stocked and remote if possible." _

 

"The house in Palm Springs. We'll go there." Tony says before he can think too hard about it. It's one of his father's many vacation estates and it's a veritable fortress in a walled property. Howard keeps it fully stocked and staffed at all times in case he's hit with a spontaneous urge to golf. It's also got a private helipad on site. "Rhodes-"

 

_"I know Stark."_ Rhodey's voice drops out of Serious Business mode and he suddenly sounds more like the best friend that's seen Tony through all the rough patches of his life. _"Don't worry about me okay? Get yourself safe and we'll figure out what to do next."_

 

"Be careful."

 

_ "You too." _

 

He tries calling his mother next. No answer. So he listens to his messages. The first one is from nine o'clock the previous night, Maria asking where he is, why he's not at Stark Industries annual New Years Gala, how disappointed his father is that he's not there despite the fact that Tony hasn't attended for the past five years. There're a couple drunken messages from various friends and people he's partied with before wondering if he wanted to meet up. A call from his dealer. A call from Obie telling him not to worry, he'll handle Howard, and to have a good night. Another message from his mother, twelve thirty and panicked this time. _"Tony, please call me. Please somethings happened I don't know what, but they're evacuating the hotel. We're in the car on the way to the house, please Tony if you're not there get home soon. And call me. The roads are mayhem I don't know if-"_ and it cuts off, end of messages. He sends her a text, [in Nevada, going to the Springs house. Call me] and then after hesitating he sends the same to Howard and Obie. 

 

Miss Potts has drifted over to the window, her slight shoulders bowed as she gazes down at the strip. Tony sidles up to her and peers over her shoulder. From this high up its impossible to see anything out of the ordinary except perhaps a few more cars out than usual. But Vegas is always chaos. "It looks so normal." Miss Potts breathes, and he can see a sheen to her eyes. 

 

"Where are you from?" Tony asks, feeling a moment of guilt for not already knowing. She's been working for him for a couple months now and he doesn't know anything about her beyond the fact that she has a sixth sense for when to spike his cappuccinos with extra amaretto and that she's remarkably efficient at chasing away people he doesn't want to deal with. And now she's stuck here in fucking Vegas during the apocalypse because of him "Where's your family?"

 

"Mom died when I was a teenager and I'm an only child. Dad's retired to Florida with his wife." She replies. Her voice is steady but she's shaking minutely. Understandably rattled. "I tried calling but the lines are all overwhelmed. Couldn't get through."

 

"Here use mine, it's on a private server." He crosses the room to give her privacy during the hushed conversation. He winds up back in front of the TV, transfixed by clip after clip from around the world, towns swarming with the stuff of nightmares. She finishes within a few minutes and joins him.

 

"They've got a neighbour with a boat apparently. They're going to set out to sea and wait out until things calm down."

 

"Then they're safer than we are." He says, looking around the room. His suitcase is open and spilling his possessions everywhere. He couldn't care less about any of it. Grabbing his computer bag he leaves the rest and turns. "Well Miss Potts, or can I call you Virginia?"

 

"I prefer Pepper, actually."

 

"Alright Pepper. I've got a helicopter at LAS, we've just got to get there. Do you have everything you need?"

 

She's wearing a rumpled blouse over what looks like Lulu Lemon yoga pants, and cheap spa flip-flops. "I left my bag in my room-"

 

They head out into the main area of the penthouse and Pepper ducks out into one of the other rooms. The communal space is dotted with people in various stages of party recovery. Tony spots a couple people he's familiar with from business dealings milling around the kitchen, and approaches one of the few who's upright and fully dressed and who he knows is not an asshole. "Hey Chen what's the word? You guys need a place to go?" 

 

The man raises his mug, sending a strong waft of coffee into Tony's face. "Thanks Stark but I've made arrangements. I'm meeting Bella and the kids and flying out to the country. We've got a bunker set up in Hong Kong. How about you, you set?"

 

Tony nods and claps the man on the shoulder. He checks in with a few others, but millionaires are a remarkably paranoid group and they all have some sort of contingencies in place for catastrophic events. 

 

He's poured himself some of the coffee from the fancy espresso machine by the time Pepper returns. She's changed into much more practical jeans and a sweatshirt and pumas, her hair tucked under a knit cap. Happy and Dale trail behind her, both looking a little worse from the night of festivities, but both with hard expressions which Tony knows means they're ready to face whatever's out there. Dale raises a brow at the sight of Tony, still in last night's party clothes with only his laptop bag, "You ready to go boss?"

 

"You bet." Tony responds chipperly, "actually just onemore thing hang on." 

 

He jogs down to the sunken lounge, and around the corner into the bar area, intent on grabbing a bottle of something strong for the road. He's surprised to see a handful of people huddled at one end of the counter. He takes in the two men and four women, all young and beautiful and dressed in hotel uniforms. Tony recognizes one of the bartenders who'd winked and slid him an extra shot without being asked, and one of the hostesses who'd spent a pleasant few minutes perched in his lap and putting up with his drunken flirtations. "Aw hell," He mutters at the sight of their terrified faces. One or two of the girls' elegant makeup has clearly been ruined by tears. "You kids okay? You got a way out of here?" 

 

This sets one of them into gasping sobs, another wraps an arm around her and answers, "the hotel is offering shuttle rides to the airport, but we live out in the burbs. The buses obviously aren't running and I don't know if it'd be a good idea to go home anyway. Who knows what it's like out there. So no, we're not really okay."

 

"We were thinking of just staying here." A kid he hazily recognizes as the party's mediocre DJ supplies. He's obviously trying for confidence but his eyes are scared and bloodshot. "Officially they're evacuating the building but we figured they wouldn't really care if we... Those...things probably won't come all the way up here, right?" 

 

Happy and Dale are unfazed when he shows up with the company in tow. A brief flash of surprise crosses Pepper's face, but it turns quickly into a soft smile that - through all the nausea - manages to go right to Tony's gut. He claps his hands together and addresses his ragtag crew, "Alright muchachos! You ready to get outta this hell hole?"

 

 

 

** 01/01/2012 12:27, New York, New York, USA **

 

Clint kills his first zombie by accident.

 

It's half past noon which means he's only just woken up. His bedsheets are tangled like a tornado had ripped through them, duvet thrown across the room leaving his naked body vulnerable to the frigid air. It's a shitty situation because all he wants to do is sleep for a decade but it's _cold_ because his jerk-off building manager is a cheap bastard who refuses to get the heater fixed even though it's the middle of the goddamn winter. Plus now that he's awake his caffeine headache is settling in with a point to prove. 

 

With a moan of disgust he rolls off the mattress and wraps himself in the fallen duvet for the short march across the apartment to the kitchenette. At this point in his life he could make coffee in his sleep, which is basically what he does. Once the machine is purring to life he staggers to the toilet for a piss. He grimaces at his reflection in the grimy mirror. His date from the night before has disappeared while he slept, the only traces being the lipstick stains all around his mouth and - oh nice - the scratches on his back. 

 

He smells the coffee - it's not done but there's enough in the pot for a mouthful -but even the scent is enough to make him feel more human. He leaves it to brew and goes to hunt down his hearing aids. He never manages to put them in the case on his bedside table and today is no different; they've somehow wound up in his slippers. He slips them into his ears and flicks the dials up and- "Jesus Christ!" He yelps as sound hits him, "Lucky what the hell? What's the matter boy?"

 

His dog is under the bed, and he's howling bloody murder. It's a shrill high pitch which Clint had been unable detect without his aids. He's never heard the dog make such a noise before; it almost sounds like he's screaming.

 

He gets on his knees and glares into the dark, dusty depths. All he can see is Lucky's round rump, his tail is curled tight between his haunches, and his whole body is shaking. "Oi!" He snaps, "Quit that! What's wrong with you?" Clint reaches out and grabs a handful of fur to drag the animal out. Lucky doesn't struggle, allowing Clint to lug him out into the light. He's in a right state, ears plastered back and eyes rolling to show the terrified whites. Clint rubs at his back, "It's okay big fella, you're alright. Shut up now, you know Old lady Johnston'll bitch my ears off if you keep this up." It's actually a miracle their crabby neighbour hasn't started pounding on the wall yet.

 

But the dog doesn't stop, even when Clint holds his muzzle shut he keeps whimpering, long and pitiful. His eyes keep flicking between Clint and the front door. Clint lets go of him briefly to grab a pair of sweats and a jacket, and while he doesn't retreat back under the bed, Lucky stays huddled in a trembling ball. "Come on then. Want to go to the park? We'll run the demons outta you."

 

Normally the word 'park' would be enough to send Lucky into fits of joy, but today he digs his paws in and forces Clint to drag him across the linoleum to the door. "Gonna stop feeding you scraps," Clint puffs, grabbing the leash from its hook and clipping it on. "You're getting fat."

 

There's nobody else in the hallway. In fact, the building seems strangely deserted for a holiday. They reach the door out to the stairs that wind down the outside of the building, and Lucky goes from uncooperative to full-on struggling. He leans on the leash, whining and yipping, twisting about and snapping his jaws. Clint is so focused on getting him out that he kicks the door open with too much force. It hits something on the other side, hard. Then there's the clang of something heavy hitting the rail and then the sickening sound of an impact on the pavement below.

 

"Oh shitfuck!" Clint gasps, dropping the leash and dashing outside to look over the railing. A wave of horror cramps through his whole body at the sight of the figure lying prone in the alley. "No. Nonononono." He chants, taking the stairs at a sprint. At the bottom he falls to the ground beside the body. It's an unfamiliar man in a suit, Clint's eyes fall on the sick way his skull is caved in, at the blood and  _other things_ oozing onto the asphalt.He gags, scrambling at his pockets, but he's forgotten his phone upstairs. "Help!" He cries, blinking back tears, "Somebody help I need an ambulance! Somebody call for help!" He bends over the body, hands fluttering helplessly, "Oh god I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

 

A golden blur leaps over his head and Clint jerks upright in time to see Lucky hurl himself at a person who he hadn't noticed emerging from deeper in the alley. "Lucky NO!" He shrieks, jumping up. He doesn't know what's happening, how this day has gone so wrong so fast. There's already one body on the ground and now his dogs gone mad and attacked somebody. The person is moving oddly, not pushing Lucky off like they should be doing, but seemingly wrapping their arms around him and clawing back, fighting like an animal. Lucky bounds away for a moment, snarling viciously. He still looks frightened, his tail plastered to his stomach. Clint finally gets a look at the person's face, and realizes that something is _very wrong_.

 

She looks deranged. More than that, she looks sick. It is one of the homeless women from the area, a quirky old gal known simply as 'Nan' who he recognizes by the bright purple scarf in her frizzy grey hair. He hadn't seen her in a while, and when he'd asked around he heard that she hadn't made it through the cold snap earlier in the winter. And she sure looks like she should be dead, her skin tinged unhealthy grey and even more loose and gaunt then it had been in life, the veins on her brow and cheeks are disturbingly prominent. Her mouth is darkened with some sort of liquid, and gapes to reveal a blackened tongue and teeth. But her eyes are the worst, filmed over by pure white, no iris or pupil visible, sunk into badly bruised sockets. 

 

"Lucky!" He hollers again, suddenly more frightened for his dog than for the person. "Lucky come!"

 

The dog seems to finally hear him, ears flicking and he turns to obey. But then Nan lunges, grabbing onto Lucky and knocking him onto his side. Lucky yowls, snapping desperately, but Nan doesn't look like she feels the teeth raking her arms. She holds onto the thrashing animal with more strength than her skinny limbs look like they should possess, her wizened hands clawing at Lucky's nose and face. Normal Nan loved Lucky, and he loved her. She could barely feed herself but she always had time for a scratch and a treat to give him. Right now it looks like she's aiming to tear him to pieces. This _thing_ isn't Nan.

 

Clint grabs a loose brick from the ground and throws himself into the fray. "Let him go!" He cries, swinging the brick hard on her knuckles. She lets out a garbled hiss, and he smells her rank breath, worse than anything. She doesn't let up, even as he hits her again, bowling into him and clawing at anything she can reach, hissing the whole time. He has no choice but to swing the brick at her temple. That takes her down but not out, she twitches and looks like she's trying to get up. 

 

Before she has the chance Clint scoops his dog into his arms and hightails it up the stairs. He doesn't stop until he's back in his room, all the locks thrown shut. "What the _fuck_." He yells, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair. He paces in a frantic circle. Lucky watches him from the floor, still whimpering softly. One of his eyes is really badly gored, and there are raw gashes bleeding sluggishly all over his face.

 

"Poor baby," Clint croons, kneeling to stroke his ears. One of them has a chunk torn out of the edge. "You saved my life didn't ya? She was coming for me and you saved me. You tried to warn me that something was out there with all that fussing, but I was too stupid to get it. Best boy in the world."

 

Despite his obvious pain Lucky's tail starts thumping with the praise. Clint retrieves his forgotten phone and dials the vet, it's a holiday but there's always someone manning the emergency line. Except for today apparently. He hangs up on the voicemail, frowning. Then he tries 911 and is met with an automated message informing him that all of their lines are busy. He didn't even know that was possible. 

 

He wets a dishcloth and carefully starts to clean Lucky's wounds. "What's going on out there buddy?" He asks.

 

Lucky just whines. 

 

 

 

** 01/01/2012 15:00 Camp Phoenix, Kabul, Afghanistan **

 

Sam's been awake for coming up to thirty-six hours now. He does twenty-four hour shifts pretty regularly when they're out in the field but this is a lot even for him. He's tired and sore and dirty and the shock is finally setting in. He recognizes the creeping numbness from the couple of times he's been injured. The tingling skin, the lightheadedness, the feeling that his lungs can't fully inflate. 

 

Beside him Riley is practicing the most important skill a soldier learns, and is sleeping sitting up with his eyes open. Davis to his right appears to have transcended exhaustion and is now full of delirious energy, kicking his feet like a damn kid on a sugar-high and making the whole bench rock back and forth. Kai punches him in the arm to make him stop, which obviously means that Davis has to smack him back. They're all the explosive combination of wound up and drained. Sam thinks that Missy is finally going to snap and shoot them all when they hear the stomp of boots and the tent flap pulls aside. Sam wakes Riley with an elbow to the ribs so that he can stand to attention with the rest of them. 

 

Colonel Sawyer marches through, as regulation polished as always. If Sam hadn't seen it with his own eyes he would never guess that the man had been right there fighting alongside them all day. His steel grey hair is as impeccable as ever, his face smooth and calm. At his back Captains Manelli and Cohan wear their weariness more openly. Lieutenant Fury and their third Captain are absent. 

 

Sawyer comes to a stop in the centre of the tent, "At ease soldiers." He orders, and they all collapse gratefully back onto the bench. "As y'all know full well, the world went to hell last night. And standing here in front of you, I've never been prouder to be your C.O. You adapted to the craziest bullshit I've seen in my life, you weren't trained for this, and you reacted rapidly and responsibly. We saved lives last night, a lot of lives."

 

"But you haven't been called here to be pat on the head. This situation is unprecedented and our works only just begun. Civilian communications are down, but we're still connected and we've received word that emergency forces back home are completely overwhelmed and crisis measures are being implemented. All divisions have been called in; we're going home."

 

 

 

** 01/01/18:00. Columbia University, New York, USA **

 

Fire. He's on fire. It hurts so bad but it's also beautiful, the dance of yellows and orange with sparks of blue and purple. And red - deep red light cast all around. He recognizes the stonework of the mansion floor below his feet. His feet. He's standing upright, as tall as he'd ever been on bare toes. He wiggles them, disrupting the embers that have gathered around. He's on fire but he's smiling. 

 

"Professor."

 

She's curled up in her favourite chair, a big old leather thing worn dull and patchy with age. Her lovely red hair is draped over one shoulder, twisted into one long coil to weave between her pale fingers. 

 

"Jean."

 

She rises to her feet in a shower of sparks. It's only then that he notices the wings unfurling behind her. They're at least six feet across, dwarfing her slim frame, crimson feathers dragging through the coals on the floor. "You're crying professor, did you miss me?"

 

"My darling girl of course!" He croaks. His throat feels raw from the smoke, his eyes too, streaming tears that evaporate with a hiss as soon as they leave his cheeks. "We all have. I'm so happy to see you."

 

"You shouldn't be." She says, her voice crackles like the flames. 

 

"I'm always going to be happy to see you Jean."

 

She shakes her head violently and cries, "No! You need to kill me! You need to kill me now and you need to burn me! I must be burned!"

 

He shakes his head, baffled. "What are you talking about? You know I'd never hurt you! Come here love-"

 

She recoils from his outstretched arms and wails, "No! It's too late! I'm begging you to burn me! Don't do this! Stop this stop it please!"

 

She turn and, to his mounting horror, throws herself against the wall where the flames are thickest. They don't appear to harm her, which increases the desperation of her movements, hurling herself harder and harder against the smoldering shelves. 

 

"Jean stop!" He begs, rushing to her side and grabbing for her flailing arms. Where his fingers make contact with her his skin bursts into pain, and he's forced to let go. "Please just calm down and I'll help you."

 

"NO!" She bellows, "nononono! You can't!"

 

"I can! Jean just for god's sake stop! I promise I'll find a way to help you!"

 

At that she finally turns away from the window, only to lunge at Charles. Her eyes have become blank and white, brighter than the fire around them. She flies at him, and he raises his arms to catch her and they burn and burn and burn. 

 

The pain is excruciating, all consuming, his spine is one line of agony from the base of his skull to his pelvis. Her hands are on his face as he screams, smoothing over his brow, and she's calling his name. 

 

"Charles! Charles wake up! You're going to hurt yourself! Charles can you hear me?"

 

He wakes up and everything from the dream is gone except for the pain. The pain is still there. He squints at the anxious face hovering above him with slow recognition. "Hank?" He croaks, his throat sore like he's actually been screaming. Perhaps he was. "Hank where's Jean? She's in trouble and we have to help her."

 

Hank takes his hands off Charles' shoulders and folds them in his own lap. He's perched with one knee up on the edge of the bed, his askew hair and glasses match the state of the bed. Clearly Charles had been thrashing, an extremely inadvisable activity at the moment. "Charles." Hank murmurs much that way a parent would speak to a confused child. "Jean is dead."

 

As if Charles didn't know. "Yes I know." He says, "But we need to help her."

 

Hank sighs heavily. "I guess we should ask them to lower his dosage." He says, and oh, Alex is in the room too. Charles hadn't noticed him there, standing over by the window. He's leaning with his fair brow against the pane, gazing broodingly out the slim cracks in the blinds. "Hey are you listening?" Hank snaps when the other man doesn't reply, "would you actually be useful and go find a nurse?"

 

Alex doesn't spare him a look. "What's the point?" He grunts, "They've probably all fucked off already anyway."

 

"Well Charles is still hurt so maybe go and try to find one anyway."

 

Alex scowls and straightens out of his crouch, but instead of heading for the door he goes to Charles' I.V. and taps the button himself. Hank immediately jumps to his feet. "I said _lower!_ " he snarls, shoving Alex away and lowering the levels again. 

 

"Don't see why." Alex huffs, "He's better off high as fuck. We'd all be better off."

 

"If that's what you think than why don't you just leave too?"

 

"You'd love that would you? Then it would just be McCoy and his precious professor. That what you've always wanted right?"

 

Their voices are raising with each word, and Charles' head hurts so badly. When they start shoving at each other he closes his eyes and wills unconsciousness back. Maybe he'll be able to find Jean there.

 

"Hey!" A new voice cries over the bickering boys, "what do you think you're doing. This is a hospital room not a schoolyard and I won't have it!"

 

He opens his eyes to see a woman in blue scrubs with white stars come hustling in. She's tiny and blonde and absolutely haggard looking. But her blue eyes are fierce as she stretches impressively to smack Hank about the head and pinch Alex's shoulder. "You're not doing him any good to be at each other like this. You're not doing any good at all. Get it together!"

 

"Sorry Sarah." Hank apologizes immediately, and Alex echoes him more surly. 

 

"You'd better be." The nurse replies, before marching to Charles' side and starting to straighten the bed around him. She tugs the blankets back in place and tucks them securely. "We can't be turning against each other now. That's how everything falls apart. Sticking together is how we win."

 

"Everything's already fallen apart."

 

Sarah turns to Alex, gazing up at him with such a keen focus that he visibly deflates. "You remind me of my son." She says after a moment. "He lost a lot as well. And he was angry for a long time. He thought he could fight his way through the pain and the loneliness just like you're trying to do. It didn't work for him. It won't work for you."

 

Alex doesn't have a reply to that. The nurse pats him on the shoulder and then heads back to the door. "Now I've got a building full of sick people and only a handful of staff, so I don't want any more of this nonsense. Understood?"

 

"Yes ma'am." It's Alex who responds first this time. "Can I just ask - where's your son now? Is he safe?"

 

Sarah smiles, her lips thin and eyes tight. "I can only pray he is." She says, and bustles back out the way she came. 

 

 

 

** 01/01/2012 24:30, Fort Hamilton, New York, USA. **

 

The entire population of the base has takes shelter in the Garrison. 

 

There had been discussions about evacuating at first, but as reports spilled in from around the world it had quickly died down. Surrounded by ten-foot barbed wire and electric fencing, armed with more weapons than they could ever use, and stocked with enough military nonperishables to last years, they are safer here than most of the world. 

 

Trucks have been pouring into the compound all day, full of civilians from the surrounding neighbourhoods. They've tried to keep everything as orderly as possible, handing out bedrolls and getting people settled. When the Garrison building is full to capacity, they set to pitching tents in the yard. Steve is too busy to stop and think until late into the night. Once the slapdash dinner service is over, he makes him way to his own pallet on the floor of the admin offices and falls into the thin blanket. 

 

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He can't even begin to wrap his head around the last twenty-four hours. The things from the cemetery which he now knows are zombies. Running as fast as he could back home to find the house empty because ma is working nights this month. Turning on the radio to the military channel and collapsing into the couch to listen in disbelief. Throwing random things in a bag, his parents' wedding album, da's medals, a box of granola bars, the ball from his first Dodgers game, the envelop of Bucky's letters, a change of clothes for him and for ma, his inhaler. Rushing from house to house knocking on doors telling people to do the same and get to safety. Gathering Mrs Barnes and the kids into George's truck and speeding to the Garrison where he'd thrown himself into any task to help.

 

"Steve?" He jolts back to himself at the soft voice from his left. 

 

"Hey Becs." He whispers, rolling to face the girl huddled on the neighbouring bed. "What're ya still awake for? You need to get some sleep."

 

She pouts at him from her cracking of blankets and he can see that her chin is wobbling dangerously. Becca is fifteen and a tough cookie, and the only time Steve's seen her cry since she was a toddler was the day of Bucky's funeral. "Hey sweetheart don't look like that. You want to come over here?"

 

She nods and scrambles over into the sliver of space he makes for her on his narrow roll. Huddling agains his chest she sniffles, "I can't sleep. I keep wondering if I'm gonna turn into a zombie."

 

He strokes her curls back and hums, "Don't think like that, you're safe as can be here. Nothing can get over the fences."

 

She nods against him but he can still feel her shivering. "You want to sleep with me then?" He suggests, "we can take turn keeping watch. Just in case."

 

She nods again and settles closer. Almost comically soon her breathing evens out into slumber. Steve drapes his arm securely around Bucky's sister and gazes to where Mrs Barnes is similarly curled around Alice and Eli. "Don't worry Buck," he whispers, "I've got this.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this a looooong time ago, before a lot of the recent movies including Civil War, Ragnorak, XM apocalypse and others. And it’s been a while since I’ve watched most of the older movies. And I’m not a comic reader. SO characterizations, relationships, etc will be touch and go in relation to various canons, heavily biased by my own preferences. I will also try to keep the sheer number of characters under control but no promises. If official marvel writers can’t do it what hope do I have?
> 
> Notes on Research:  
> My approach to researching for this was basically to research enough but not too much. I’ve tried to ground this story in real things but I’ve also taken liberty for the sake of a good story. A few things off the top of my head;   
> There really is a Camp Phoenix in Afghanistan - I couldn’t believe how perfect it was either.  
> There really is a Military base in NY city, but I know nothing about the makeup of a base or military installations and movements in general.  
> My zombie mythology will be heavily based on the BBC show In The Flesh which inspired this story. But I plan on getting a bit into the science of the cure which will mostly be BS from a person who is neither a scientist or a doctor.


End file.
